


A Toast to Friends in Low Places

by pathera



Category: Inception (2010), The Avengers (2012), White Collar
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Chance Meetings, Crossover, Early Days, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Probably Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thief, a forger, and an assassin walk into a bar. Or: everyone knows everyone, it's a small world, and things tend to explode when Clint is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Toast to Friends in Low Places

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a short lived writing challenge that a couple of friends and I were doing last summer. The prompt was pick 3-5 of your favorite characters from any show(s) or film(s) and write a scene detailing how they meet or interact at a bar/diner. 
> 
> Originally posted here, along with the other entries and prompts: http://deusexmachinameetscthulhu.wordpress.com/

“I can’t believe you’re wearing that shirt. I thought I burned that shirt in Berlin.”

“You did. I found a new one.”

“I burned it for a _reason_. I cannot be seen with you in public while you are wearing a shirt like that.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Neal makes a discontented _hmph_ sound. “I had no reason to assume you’d be wearing a shirt that I destroyed. It’s not nice to deceive your friends, Eames.”

“Says the con-man.”

“Alleged.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “What was that about deceiving your friends, Caffrey?”

“I would never lie to you, Eames,” Neal says solemnly, and Eames just shakes his head.

“So, you _didn’t_ once tell me that you were descended from British royalty?”

Neal grins. “I plead the fifth,” he says, and glances around the bar. It’s dark enough that the grime is _almost_ hidden, and the place isn’t so run-down that it has been completely overtaken by less-than-savory characters, although it’s certainly headed in that direction. Give it another year or two and it will be a cesspool where people go to sink so low they’ll never emerge again; at the moment though, it’s just another typical Eames pick, stocked with hard liquor, people who won’t ask questions or remember faces, and dirty enough to make Neal grimace and avoid touching things.

“It’s not going to kill you Caffrey,” Eames says, watching him inspect his glass before drinking from it.

“Caution is the eldest child of wisdom,” Neal replies.

“Is it now? Speaking of caution, how is your game with the feds going? Mozzie must be thrilled.”

“I’m not playing games—“

“Of course you are,” Eames interrupts. “I’d tell you it’s a bad idea, but you never listen to me anyway.” 

“I don’t listen to people who wear paisley,” Neal says. His eyes flicker over Eames’s shoulder briefly before his attention turns back. “Do you feel like we’re being watched?”

“Mozzie’s paranoia is getting to you,” Eames replies, but glances around anyway, scanning the area. “One of your feds?”

“All the way down here? No. And Interpol couldn’t find me if I was on fire.”

“Piss anyone off lately?”

“That’s more your deal, isn’t it?” 

“If I were a lesser man I would throw the name Matthew Keller in your face and say I told you so, but as I am not….”

Neal glares at him over the brim of his glass and is taking a delicate sip when a figure slides into the seat next to him. He inhales sharply, sputtering and choking on the liquid. “I know you’re awed as ever by my presence, Caffrey, but try not to choke,” Clint Barton says, grinning unrepentantly and slinging an arm over his shoulders. Eames doesn’t show any surprise at his sudden presence, but there is the quickest flash of something red in his hand, disappearing as quickly as it came.

“Where the _hell_ did you come from?” Neal asks once his choking fit has subsided, his throat burning and his eyes watering.

“Around,” Clint says with a wave of his hand. “Imagine my surprise when I came in for a drink and found two of my favorite thieves all cozied up together. I didn’t know you knew each other.”

“Alleged thief, Barton. _Alleged_. Why can you people not remember that?”

“Touchy, touchy, Caffrey.”

“Neal and I occasionally run in the same circles,” Eames says smoothly. “The better question is, how do _you_ know him? Art thieves—my apologies, _alleged_ art thieves—are a bit below your caliber, aren’t they?”

“A while back we happened to be interested in the same building, and decided to combine my ninja stealth with his boyish charm. We made a good team, didn’t we Neal?”

“Yeah. Right up until we got shot at and the building went up in flames,” Neal says dryly.

Clint shrugs. “It happens. I got my information, you got your painting, and we got out just fine.  Don’t be overdramatic.”

“Is it just me,” Neal directs towards Eames, “or is there a lot of running and shooting when he gets involved with things?”

“It’s him,” Eames says. “He has an annoying habit of popping up out of nowhere, but his disappearances aren’t _nearly_ as stealthy.”

“They’re fun though. Remember Athens?”

Eames narrows his eyes at him. “I will be very put out with you if I end up running from irate monks again, Barton.”

Neal makes a little _ah_ - _ha_ sound. “See, that story makes so much more sense knowing that _he_ was involved,” Neal says, tilting his head towards Clint.

“Caffrey, where the hell did you hear that story?”

“Arthur,” Neal replies, his smile smug, and Eames makes a face. “He also told me about the New Year’s incident.”

Eames groans. “He gossips worse than a school girl.”

“Only when it’s about you. I still don’t understand why there was a goat.”

“You don’t need to understand,” Eames tells him, and Clint snorts.

“I don’t even want to know.”

“Probably not,” Eames agrees. “What are you doing out here, Clint?”

“Just kicking around,” Clint says vaguely, “nothing special.” Neal exchanges a _yeah right_ look with Eames, which Clint shakes his head at. “What antics are the two of you up to down here? I’d expect you to be living it up in New York, Neal.”

“He’s got hounds on his trail,” Eames offers, “and he’s playing fox.”

“Why yes, Eames, go right ahead and answer for me,” Neal says.

“No problem, darling.”

“Interpol or FBI?” Clint asks, leaning forward.

“Both, I’d assume. I’m just letting things die down. Eames is exaggerating.”

“No, Eames talked to Arthur, who discussed the actual situation with Mozzie, so don’t try to pull a fast one over on me, Caffrey,” Eames replies.

Neal ignores this, changing the subject instead. “Speaking of Mozzie, he told me not to associate with you, Clint.”

Clint grins. “Good old Mozzie.”

“He said, and I quote, that he’d ‘rather take his chances with the Man than mess around with your kind’.”

“Smart man,” Eames says.

“I’m hurt, Eames. Truly, deeply hurt,” Clint says.

“I would be more concerned with your feelings if you didn’t still owe me for that thing in Madrid.”

“How long are you going to throw that in my face?”

“Forever, most likely.”

Clint glares at him, and then smiles wickedly. “I bet that Neal would love to hear the story of how _we_ met. Or, sorry, the story of how I met _Johan_ , since that’s the alias he tried to pull off.”

“Johan?” Neal asks, his voice strangled.

Eames sniffs in disdain. “You’re simply jealous that you can’t pull off a German accent, Barton.”

“No, seriously Eames, _Johan_?” Neal asks again.

“Shut up Caffrey.”

“Why would you _ever_ try to pull off _Johan_?”

“I was under duress and I’d just been shot, thanks to a certain person,” he says, looking pointedly at Clint.

“Should’ve ducked faster.”

“This is why Arthur doesn’t talk to you anymore.”

“No, Arthur doesn’t talk to me because of Venice. You getting shot has nothing to do with it.”

Neal opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it abruptly when the bar shudders. Eames and Neal glance at each other, and then turn to stare at Clint, who has the grace to look sheepish.

“Would your ‘kicking around’ include impromptu demolitions, Barton?”

“That’s classified information,” Clint says, and tosses back the rest of his drink. “I think that’s my cue to leave, boys. Try not to get in too much trouble without me.” He claps both of them on the shoulder and turns, managing to disappear into the crowd seamlessly.

“Our lives are certainly never dull,” Neal says after a moment.

Eames snorts. “Indeed they are not. Another drink?”

“Absolutely.”   


End file.
